


I love you more

by winter_angst



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Guilt, Infidelity, M/M, low calorie angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27528505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_angst/pseuds/winter_angst
Summary: Brock isn't the protagonist in the grand scheme of things.
Relationships: Brock Rumlow/Grant Ward, Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow, Jack Rollins/OC
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	I love you more

Brock stood on the hotel room balcony, naked as the day he was born, smoking a cigarette. Behind him Jack was speaking but Brock wasn’t listening. He flicked the ash off the end and the burning tip stood out against the blanket of darkness spread out over the city. It was rivaled by the life below it. Maybe there were stars up there but they were drowned by neon lights and twinkling glimmers of light below him. Warm yellow light swelled behind him. A warm hand rested on his hip and a chin a bit rough with stubble rested on his shoulder. Brock tilted his head to rest it against Jack’s. The hand on his hip came up for the cigarette and Brock agreeably passed the smoke to him. 

It was just silence and smoke. Brock took the cigarette back and took a deep, long drag. Smoke curled from his nose and his mouth. Jack kissed the corner of his lips and Brock closed his eyes. He wondered what would happen if he climbed onto the railing. Could he fly? Brock wondered if he’d feel weightless or if he’d feel heavy as the ground rushed up to meet him. Who would he think of during those precious few seconds. Whose smile, whose laugh, whose hands on his body. He opened his eyes and stared out at the skyscrapers and towers of office buildings. Sometimes Brock felt an imposter in this world, like he was walking through a TV set, the background vivid and realistic but fake. No, if anything was fake it would be Brock. 

Jack rubbed his hands up his sides and Brock sunk into the touch as he always did; how he always would. A shudder crept his spine as Jack placed a careful, chaste kiss to the nape of his neck. Brock flicked more ash and watched night swallow it up. The night could swallow him too, if he dared to test gravity. Brock felt buoyant these days, setting sail in a rocky sea. Should he falter, just once, he would wreck. Jack’s hand searched his chest, fingers massaging his pec. Jack was always greedy, he wanted to hold him, caress him, enjoy their stolen time together. Usually Brock was giving, willingly lending himself to his desires, to indulge in his own. But tonight was one of the nights where the air felt different. One of the nights Brock felt different. 

Jack could tell, Brock knew he did, but wasn’t going to address it. Once it was aired it would be impossible to overcome and their night together would end. Tonight he didn’t want to talk, he wanted to touch and be touched, feel and be felt. The L-word never was fitting even if they both carried in their chest. It rested at the tip of Brock’s tongue whenever he saw the man, every time he looked into his moss green eyes he wanted to say it. But they were both old enough, mature enough to know that it wasn’t an option. Not with that silver band on Brock’s ring finger. When Brock stood at the altar he had meant every word he said but when he was with Jack they turned to lies. Since the very first time he saw Jack, it had been lies. The first time they locked eyes they entered into his strange relationship. It flourished after dark and wilted when the sun rose. 

In the daylight he was Jack Rollins, his husband’s boss. At night he was Jack, and the only thing that mattered. Stealing away nights used to be difficult, Brock greeted with a barrage of questions. As they grew more regular he stopped asking. He knew, he had to know, but he didn’t say a word so neither did Brock. There was no way of telling if he knew it was Jack he was seeing but Brock didn’t think so. He didn’t so much as flinch when Jack shook Brock’s hand at holiday parties. Brock wondered if Jack hated seeing him with Grant as much as he hated seeing him with his wife. She was beautiful with blonde hair pinned up showing off her heart shaped face. 

Grant was handsome too. Devilishly so. Brock used to feel unbelievably lucky to be looked at by the man much less touched, but those feelings had faded and now it was more of him tolerating him. It wasn’t fair to Grant that Brock did but this it wasn’t fair to Brock that he had to. He wasn’t keen on taking blame for his choices. Good, bad, who cared? 

It was what it was. That was the conclusion he always came to basking in the afterglow of an orgasm, head resting on Jack’s chest listening to the steady thump of his heart. The hotel room had high ceilings and plaster molding running around the room. The air condition hummed softly and the walls were eggshell in color. It housed a king bed with a golden yellow comforter. It was an ugly color in Brock’s opinion. It reminded him too much of piss.

The comforter aside it was a nice room. Not too roomy, not too small. It was cozy, meant for two people. 

“Let’s get back in bed.” Jack’s voice was a murmur and Brock leaned into his touch. 

Brock took another drag, the smoke almost reaching the filter and as he exhaled he smoldered the lit end with a pinch. He flicked it butt off the balcony — he was already committing adultery; what was the harm in a bit of littering? 

Brock allowed himself to be led to the bed, Jack’s large hand holding Brock’s with careful but deliberate pressure. He took him back to the bed, to the tangle of sheets and sin. Brock didn’t shy from it. He wasn’t the protagonist in the grand scheme of things. He was the bastard, the cheater, the liar, the home wrecker. But when he was with Jack that all faded to minor concerns. When he was with Jack he could fade into what he wanted. 

Throw himself into the sinewy arms of a night time lover. Drown into his sage eyes. Brock could disconnect and stave off the guilt he’d feel once he departed this cove of secrecy. 

Jack touched him, fingers finely tuned to how to play Brock. How to make him preen and moan, how to make him gasp and keen. And when Jack was inside him he knew how long to wait, how he liked to be fucked and how to get Brock to cum untouched, although he never denied Brock the added layer of pleasure. In return Brock knew how to touch Jack, to make him groan and said his voice in a dark velvety tone of thanks. Brock knew that Jack liked it when he swallowed him down the root and stroked his perineum. Brock loved the taste of his cum almost as he loved the feeling of it inside him. Sometimes Jack would cum on his chest and Jack took care in rubbing it into his skin, marking him, making him his for the time being. Their showers together were more melancholy. For Brock is due to the onslaught of emotion he’d feel when he drove out of the parking garage. He wondered what Jack felt when he left but addressing it felt inappropriate. 

There were questions that were forbidden to ask, requests that were dashed before either could give it much thought. There would never be a Them. They wouldn’t leave their spouses. Jack didn’t promise more than a night of passion and Brock only belonged to him within the walls of a hotel. He was as brief, fleeting thought that Brock quickly dismissed. He wouldn’t leave Grant -- there was still love for him. Sometimes Brock missed him when he layed in bed with Jack. Grant would speak in a soft voice, like they were in another world all together. Jack preferred silence. Brock wondered if he was thinking of his wife. Did he see her face behind his eyelids? Did he wonder what she was doing right now? 

Brock imagined Grant, all alone, drinking scotch with the TV on to fill the silence. He knew, he had to know, but he carried on like he didn’t. It was too painful to confront. Brock didn’t like the idea of Grant in pain. Well, not counting the stolen nights with his boss. But he wasn’t Grant’s Boss tonight, he was Jack, the man kissing his neck. The alarm read two am and they usually wrapped up their sex at this time and Brock fell asleep in his arms. 

He drifted out as Jack drew him up into his arms. The smell of Jack’s skin rocked him to sleep. 

Brock woke up before Jack and carefully untangled himself. He took a shower, Jack still asleep, and got dressed. He paused at the doorway looking at Jack fast asleep in the middle of the bed. Brock didn’t turn on the radio all those expected feelings bombarded him with guilt but not regret. Never regret. He was sorry he did it but he wasn’t sorry it happened. Considering it a victimless crime was feeble; he was breaking Grant’s heart and he knew it. But he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to. That the fact of the matter: he didn’t want to stop and he wouldn’t. So the guilt he carried would remain and Brock would have to just deal with it. He’d carry it with him until it all unraveled, should it ever. 

He drove into the gated residential community and parked his car in front of the duplex. He grabbed his overnight bag and put on a weary expression. Grant was in the kitchen, leaning against the island sipping coffee. “Hey,” he smiled, dark eyes warm. 

He didn’t ask how his trip was; there was no reason for more lies to hang between them. Grant made him a cup of coffee and then headed towards the door. He paused, hand on the doorknob and turned to look at Brock, eyes clouded with an emotion Brock couldn’t distinguish. 

“I love you.” 

Brock set the mug down. It was an unusual thing for him to say such a thing after a night away, especially with that look in his eyes, but Brock recovered easily with, “I love you too.” 

And it wasn’t a lie. He did love Grant. 

But deep down he knew that he loved Jack more.


End file.
